


Strange Tides

by littleblackfox



Series: The Thrice Damned Fic [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Body Horror, Demon AU, Europe by train, Fluff at last!, Happy Ending, Horror, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-14 02:35:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7149230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You've got to change the world<br/>And use this chance to be heard<br/>Your time is now".<br/>-Butterflies and hurricanes<br/>Muse</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Butterflies and Hurricanes

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks!  
> We're back! 7 chapters, 7 days. You know the score.

Steve Rogers wakes up to a world in chaos.  
With the leaked files from SHIELD and Hydra, the knowledge that Demons exist is no longer a secret. The information spreads like wildfire. the SSR’s systematic destruction of all information pertaining to Demons. Hydra and its use of Demons in WW2 and beyond. The pit filled with countless Demons under the Swiss Alps. The medical records of Steve Rogers aka Captain America. The world knows what he is.   
The acquisition of the Asset, aka the Winter Soldier, aka James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, is also on record. The targets, the kill orders issued by Secretary Pierce and his predecessors. There were many handlers before Pierce, though few lived more than a handful of years after taking control of the Asset. The leaked documents reveal the extensive use of force required to keep the Asset under control. They detail the Assets repeated attempts to circumvent orders, taking every opportunity to misconstrue instructions given. The escape attempts and subsequent punishments are all there in plain black type. Seventy years under the control of Hydra and he never stopped fighting back.  
Steve can hardly bear to read the documents. He can’t look at the grainy photographs of the Asset on assignment or sealed up in a cold iron casket. The details the bindings and restraints used on the Asset and the construction of the metal arm are frustratingly vague, the Hydra operative who created it long dead. He scours endless documents and writes pages of notes until his hands begin to tremble and his eyes blur with unshed tears.

He watches Romanov before the Senate, all poise and sarcasm. His heart aches as she stands her ground under questioning. His heart breaks as they speak of a registration act, a catalogue of Demons. Their names, their abilities, their movements all on record. They speak of Demons being stripped of citizenship, of requiring passports. He remembers the Nuremberg race laws, remembers the ghetto in Warsaw and feels an unshakable horror that he could live to see such an atrocity happen again.  
Romanov argues for him, for Bucky, for all the Demons. She speaks of agency, of free will. She coldly reminds the Senate that Demons are more powerful than men, and at their own liberty have caused humanity no harm. ‘Don’t pull on that thread’, she tells them. 

Steve cannot sit in silence, can’t linger in the shadows. He calls Romanov and asks her what to do. She calls a press conference.   
He stands before the reporters, the cameras, the gathering crowd and feels like he might just shake apart. He closes his eyes. Breathes in. Breathes out. Romanov stands beside him and gently presses her fingers to his arm. She leans close to him.  
“Tell them about him,” she whispers in his ear.  
He opens his eyes, looks out at the crowd and begins to speak. He tells them of his childhood in New York, of his weak heart, his scoliosis. He tells them about his empty, drafty apartment. He tells them about Bucky, about how a frightened, lonely young man had called out into the void and he had answered. He tells them how the first thing Bucky did when they met was save his life. Bucky healed him, changed him. He hadn’t known then, hadn’t known until a long time later, but that was the moment. That was when he became a Demon. Not through violence or force or decades frozen in ice, but an act of kindness from a stranger who would become his dearest friend.   
He tells them of the war, of the Demons in the Allied Forces, like the gentle Erskine. He tells them of the Rusalka, the wodnik, the kobold and countless others that helped them in the war. He tells them about Czechoslovakia, the Vlkodlak swarming the Hydra base. He tells them of the frost that rimed Bucky's skin, how every battle took a little more from him, but he never stopped giving. When he has run out of stories he shakes his head and bows his head. We have always been among you, he tells them. We have bowed at your feet, he whispers. Leave us in peace.  
He does not stay for questions, and let's Romanov hustle him away. 

The Demons reveal themselves. One by one, within minutes, within hours of Steve’s speech, they announce themselves. An English author informs the audience, with a slightly sheepish expression, that he is a Spriggan at an award ceremony. He collects his frosted glass trophy for best novel and shuffles quietly off the stage.

A celebrity chef famed for his love of BBQ comes out as a Salamander live on air during a morning chat show. He char grills several ears of corn with his flaming breath and serves them with sour cream and chilli flakes to the stunned guests.

A Finnish popstar and environmental activist announces on a London stage mid concert that she is Tellervo, and sings a song of her forest home, long since destroyed, that brings the crowd to tears. 

A Mexican actor, famed for his hard man appearace, his body covered with tattoos and several cult films, arrives at a press conference for his latest film with black and yellow stripes across his face. He reveals himself to be Tezcatlipoca, the Aztec spirit of the night sky. His wife and children cheer from the audience.

A woman's rights activists, the thick red line at her throat a stark contrast to her pale skin, announces that she is a Pennanggalan. She speaks hesitantly of the assault that spurred her transformation.

Asia looks on with mild amusement, having never forgotten their Demons, though Huli Jing start to walk openly on the streets of China. Their nine tails bristling, they escort young women home from work, from school. They bare their teeth at young men who don’t take no for an answer.

It’s easy to fear a faceless Demon. It’s harder to fear one with skin like burnished copper and a small army of beautiful grandchildren. The world watches entranced as Omid, key figure in the leaking of classified information, loudest opponent of the Demon Registration act and ifrit, gathers his family around him before reporters.   
A film recording of his youngest granddaughter solemnly informing reporters that if there is a monster under your bed, it’s probably scared and frightened and would like a hug and a cup of cocoa, goes viral.   
One by one they find Steve. At campaigns for Demon equality, at press conferences, in the street. One by one they find him, they shake his hand, they embrace him and he cannot help but fall into their arms. A few speak of the pit, of the darkness under the mountain, and crush him closer. Some speak of Bukavac, ‘Your Bucky’, they call him. ‘That asshole’, they call him. ‘My friend’, they call him. They whisper their true names to him and he buries them deep like the treasures they are. He tells them to cast away their old names, to make themselves new ones. he tells them to be more than a word, to be more than chains to bind themselves. Some don’t understand. he tells them anyway.

America shuffles its feet. None of the Demons that have come forward seek power, none have high standing positions in business or politics. If there is anything that unifies them, it is that they only seek peace and simple pleasures.   
The Smithsonian unveils a hastily assembled exhibit on Demons in history. Displays of the crocodile headed Demons of Ancient Egypt stand alongside Assyrian winged bulls and Mesapotamian Lamashtu. It becomes the most popular exhibit in the museum.   
The Howling Commandos exhibit is unchanged, except for the memorial to Bucky, which has been reworked with a focus on free will and autonomy. Grainy footage of the Winter Soldier is displayed alongside Hydra kill orders. There are essays on autonomy and free will on display, alongside comparisons between the actions of the enslaved Demon and the free Bucky Barnes laid out side by side.  
The silent footage of Steve and Bucky laughing together remains. Steve visits the exhibit frequently just to see it. He spends far too much time watching the flickering images. It has been over seventy years since those images were recorded, but to him it still only seems like months ago. He wonders where Bucky is. He wonders if he is safe.

In the face of public opposition, the Demon Registration act is quietly shelved. There are still negative and inflammatory opinions in the news about Demons living amongst humans, there are still articles in newspapers and magazines about the dangers of letting Demons walk freely amongst humankind, but Captain America has become a banner for their cause, and Demon or not, many find themselves reluctant to stand against that particular symbol.   
Steve thinks of Alexander Pierce waving a hand dismissively at him. America’s golden boy. Above reproach. A symbol of freedom. He finds himself at peace with the idea.


	2. An Unknown Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm a pale intruder on an unknown beach  
> My back to the water, my feet in the sand"  
> -An Unknown Beach  
> Amanda Palmer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks. Chapter 2 for you all.  
> You know that text message in CA:CW? Yeah, fuck that.  
> You can find me at thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com  
> though I can't imagine why you'd want to

The world turns, and with it public interest turns to the next new thing to squabble over. There are still murmurs about Demons, it’s an issue that Fox News will never leave alone, but they remain murmurs.  
The Westbro Baptist Church threatens to perform a mass exorcism to rid the world of Demons for good, until they gain the attention of a pakàk. The Demon, an emaciated creature with glowing red eyes and shrill cry, torments the church members mercilessly with all night falsetto singing and mild liver disease.

Omid lands himself a chat show on TV. It’s an overnight success, and there are no end of film stars and musicians who want to ride around New York in the back of his cab while he hurls colourful insults and occasional even more colourful balls of flame at other drivers. Omid delights in the attention, sharing anecdotes about his grandchildren and flirting outrageously with his guests.

Steve spends most of his time in Washington, in the Smithsonian Institution archives and the Library of Congress. The staff are slightly in awe of him, and are more than willing to give him access to the collections. He writes letters and emails to members of the American Folklore Society, the British Museum and the British Library. He reads about European history, the Vinca and the Celts. He studies old maps and finds the names that a soft, low voice had once whispered in his ear. He reads about Paganism and Witchcraft, ignoring anything written in the last 50 years. He studies everything he can find on Demonology and the occult.  
He doesn’t search to better understand himself, but to better understand how human control Demons, how to break curses and remove bindings. He reads Goetia and the Lesser Key of Solomon. He reads the remaining scraps of the Black Pullet grimoire and Sefer Raziel HaMalakh. He pores over fragments of writing by Ptolemy, Virgil and Agrippa. He finds little of use to him, but he writes it down in a notebook, sketching symbols and seals in the margins.  
He learns a simple truth. For all the symbolism and all the ceremony, the breaking of seals is simple. Their power resides in their physical form, snap a clay tablet in half and you snap the curse within it. Break a binding cord and you break its bond. Rosemary heals, he writes down. Salt will kill or cure, he writes down. The river is the blood rushing through your veins, salt and strange tides.  
He writes it down in his book. 

He is sitting on a patch of grass at Dyke Marsh, sketching a red fox in the pre dawn light nosing about it the cattails when he suddenly thinks Peggy. The word sits in his thoughts like a hot coal, painful and urgent. He scrambles to his feet and starts running, startling the birds from the trees. He feels the world shift and then he is stood outside her retirement home. He knocks on the door and the early morning staff let him in, grumbling softly about the hour, and he makes his way to Peggy's room.  
He has been visiting regularly, updating her on his reading and listening carefully to the little slips of wisdom she offers between faltering breaths. It is a terrible thing to see her brilliant mind crumbling away, far worse to see her body failing her. She remains in her bed, unable to walk. Her hands are like lilies, pale and weightless. He can hardly feel it when she presses a palm to his cheek, can hardly hear the movement of her breath when she whispers his name. But her eyes are still bright and brilliant, sharply observing.  
“Hey Peg,” he whispers, pressing his hand to hers as she cups his face.  
She smiles at him, her dry lips working for a moment before she speaks.  
“Steve,” she murmurs. “You shouldn’t be here”.  
He strokes the papery skin of her fingers.  
“Where else would I be?” he says softly.  
Her fingers twitch and he lays her hand gently on top of the bedclothes, clasping it between his palms.  
“I don’t know where he is, Peggy. I wish I did”. He says quietly.  
He hasn’t seen Bucky since he dragged them both into the Raritan river. He has a dim recollection of sunlight filtering through water, a cold hand pressing to his shoulder and warmth flooding his veins. But in the months following he had found no trace of him, nor had any Demon he had spoken to. His absence doesn’t ache the way it used to. It doesn’t feel like loss. If Steve reaches into himself he can feel a solid weight nudged against his heart. If he pushes against it, it touches back. He focuses on it, taps and touches and it pulses and sparks in response, a language he doesn’t understand, but finds comfort in. He strokes Peggy's fingers carefully, as though he was handling a butterfly. They flutter against him.  
“If I knew, I’d still be here,” he says softly. “I wouldn’t leave you on you own. Not for this”.  
She nods her head, her mouth trembles.  
“I never thought I would be scared,” she sighs.  
Steve shakes his head.  
“Don’t be scared, Peg. It doesn’t end here”. He soothes her as best as he can. “It’s beautiful. A boat bobbing on the vast ocean, the water so clear and blue you can see the white sands below, stretching to the shore. There's a beach leading to trees, the air is full of sweet jasmine. And in the distance there are mountains stained peach and cherry by the setting sun”.  
He watches as Peggy closes her eyes.  
“I. I would like that”. She breathes.  
Steve feels tears prickling. Takes deep, slow breaths.  
“My feet in the sand,” Peggy murmurs.  
Steve strokes her brittle fingers and thinks of strange tides, listening to the silent spaces a heart had once filled.


	3. The Golem of Prague

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A man made of clay. A scrap of paper in his forehead".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you cross Charles bridge and towards the castle, skirting left around the stone towers. Down the narrow street there is a tiny, store, the walls covered in violins and accordions and gold painted icons of saints.  
> The Vodnik there will teach you Czech and ply you with wine and sing songs from Les Mis. He will not let you leave until you can pronounce 'Na shledanou'. The wine helps.  
> Back across the Vtalva, down a cobblestone alley is a small bar with wooden tables and chairs. They will set you down in the gloom of candlelight and bring you beer. They won't ask you what you're drinking, there is only one kind of beer. For every heavy glass tankard they bring you, they will make a chalk mark on the edge of your table.  
> And that, my friends, is as good as life gets.

He stays for the funeral, joins the pallbearers in lowering the coffin in the cold ground. He doesn’t shed tears, Peggy isn’t in the bundle of skin and bones under the dirt. She has her back to the sea and her feet in the sand, far away from this place.  
He leaves the cemetery, the endless caskets buried like seeds that will never grow.  
He is at a dead end in his research. Too much knowledge has been lost or suppressed over time. He thoughts return to silvered clay plates interlocking. He closes his eyes and loses himself in memories. The weight of Bucky's arm slung over his shoulders while fireworks lit up the night sky. A flying car. A soft, low voice in his ear recounting stories of huge figures formed of clay that built city walls.  
He tucks his notebook and a change of clothes into his backpack and makes his way to the nearest airport.

He takes an overnight flight to Prague. Most of the eight hour journey is spent crossing the North Atlantic ocean. While his fellow passengers doze fitfully he stares out the window at the waters below. He can feel the ocean tugging gently at him, down in the darkness. He watches the sun rise over the water, the waves below like white scratches on a blue canvas. Soon the view of the sea is replaced by land, endless fields, stitched together by roads and rivers spread out below like a patched quilt. He feels an odd twist in his gut as they pass over Krivoklátsko, the ancient forest. He can feel the Vlkodlak, moving silently among the trees. He wonders if they know of the rest of the world, if they even care. He remembers a castle, a courtyard. Bucky pale and shivering, frost clinging to his eyelashes, to his blue lips. He remembers being huddled together on the stone floor, arms tightly wrapped around each other while Bucky whispered stories in his ear. Steve manages a rueful little smile. How had he not known then? How had he not seen what was so obvious, looking back. Blind to the workings of his own heart.  
They land west of the city and he follows his fellow travellers, lost in his thoughts. The bus is sleek, modern and crammed full of people, but it’s a short journey to the metro station. He buys a metro ticket and rides the rickety, soviet made carriage. The PA system announces each stop, the words strange and musical. Stodûlky. Jinonice. Radlická. He alights at Karlovo Námêsti. He feels the river tugging at his bones and responds to the call, letting his feet lead him until he finds himself standing on a wide stone bridge overlooking the River. Vtalva. The bridge is lined with low stones walls dotted with statues, overlooking the white walled buildings with red tiled roofs. There is a filament of energy stretching out, fine and gossamer thin. It sings softly and Steve follows it. He crosses the bridge and walks along the road that winds through gothic streets. There is a castle at the summit. The shimmering thread winds around the castle, skirting south and then west along a quiet stretch of road. It leads to a small music shop tucked in an alleyway. Steve stretches out his senses and finds no danger, only music and a soft, unfocused energy. He pushes open the door, ducking his head to fit through the low entrance, and meets the Demon.

The Demon is large and round and ruddy cheeked with a bristly mustache. A Vodník. He is dressed in mossy green tweed and has a straw boater perched on his head. He is sat at an old, well loved piano strewn with sheet music. There is a mostly empty bottle of red wine weighing down several pages of musical notations, the wine glass in his hand sloshes merrily as he gestures for Steve to come in.  
“Ah, dobré odpoledne!” He waves. Steve takes a cautious step forward. The walls are covered with accordions and violins. Tiny, gold painted images of saints fill the spaces between the musical instruments.  
“Hello?” He says warily.  
The Demon's face lights up.  
“Aha, American! Don’t worry, I speak American. And German, and Russian too!”  
He fumbles around his piano, fetching up another wine glass. He waves it at Steve, who quickly shakes his head.  
“No, but thank you”.  
The Demon shrugs and pours the remainder of the bottle into his glass.  
“Do you play?” He asks, setting his glass down and running his fingers up the piano keys.  
Steve shakes his head. The Demon looks briefly disappointed, then begins to play.  
“Do you sing?” He starts to hum something from Les Miserables, waggling his eyebrows.  
“No, I’m sorry”.  
The Demon pauses over the keys, gives him an expectant look.  
“So why are you here, hmm?”  
Steve hesitates. He has searched libraries and found only scraps. A name, and the stories Bucky used to tell.  
“Yossele”.  
There is a discordant clatter as the Demon’s fingers stutter over the keys. He pauses to grab his glass and swallow a mouthful of wine.  
“I name I have not heard in a long time,” the Vodník says softly. “What do you know?”  
“A man made of clay, a scrap of paper in his forehead”.  
The Demon nods.  
“The shem, it is placed in the mouth or the forehead. It brings life”. The Demon takes another mouthful of wine. He glares at Steve, who does not shuffle his feet or look away. he nods, satisfied with whatever it is that he has seen.  
“They were hard times in the ghetto. They gathered up clay from the Vltava and made a man. They named him Josef. He did not sleep, or eat or sing, only worked. And when the work was done they gave him more”. The Demon closes his eyes. “Until one day he saw a beautiful woman. His heart of clay sang for her. He returned to his masters and told them he had found a bride. They laughed at him”. The Demon drains his glass, sets it down. “Josef turned on his masters, tore the city to the ground. So they pulled the shem from his head and he crumbled to dust”.  
The Demon rummages around under the piano and pulls up another bottle of wine. He uncorks it and refills his glass.  
“Bad business,” he mutters. “Very bad business”.  
“Was it you that built the Golem?” Steve asks quietly. The Demon shakes his head.  
“My master. Very powerful man,” he shakes his head. “A heart of stone”.  
The Demon takes a drink of wine, starts to run his fingers over the piano keys.  
“Do not asks me to build you a Golem. I will not,” he says quietly.  
Steve shakes his head.  
“I don’t want to build a Golem,” he replies. “I want to free one”.  
The Demon grins at him.  
“Can you help me do that?”

Steve follows the road down to the river. The bridge is wide and low and old. He crosses, skirting around the hawkers and pickpockets and tourists milling back and forth. He boards the metro and travels west. The clatter of machinery familiar now, the distorted voice on the PA system comforting. Hùrka. Luziny. Zlicín. He disembarks at the terminus, climbing the concrete steps to the bus station. He squeezes onto a crowded shuttle to the airport. He considers returning to the US, but there is nothing waiting for him there. The thought does not distress him as much as he had expected it to. He stares at the outgoing flights board, the city name flickering on the screen. One catches his eye. London. He has been there before, back in ‘43. After Italy, after Erskine and finding Bucky strapped to a table in a Hydra base. They had been shipped out to England. While the newly formed Howling Commandos had proceeded to drink every pub dry in the city limits Bucky had thrown an arm around Steve’s shoulder and led him out into the evening. Bucky loved London, and the city opened up to him like the old friend he was. Bucky had made a point of introducing them formally, and securing an oath from the city to keep an eye on the goddamned punk. Steve had yelped in shock when the city had mumbled a cheerful greeting in his ear. They had walked until morning, keeping to the shadows while Bucky whispered London's secrets in his ear. Steve had hooked an arm around his waist and pressed close in the chill, listening to his soft low voice as he spoke of the city lousy with Magicians, of Greek temples in Bloomsbury and the Iceni queen buried under a train station.  
He joins the queue at the ticket desk, and boards the next flight to London.


	4. The Gloaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a doorway at the end of the corridor.  
> There is a doorway and it leads to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks.  
> I know I keep saying this, but thank you so much for reading, for leaving kudos and for commenting. My numerous anthropomorphic gods, your comments are a thing of beauty.
> 
> If you are in London, visit the reading room. It is a thing of beauty and utterly ridiculous. It's made of paper mache, damnit.
> 
> Next chapter we'll be taking a closer look at those documents, and also get to know London a bit more.

Steve is in the British Library Reading Room working his way through a poorly transcribed copy of the Lemegeton when the world pitches sideways. He slumps to the floor and for a moment is neither here nor there. A void opens up beneath him and he wobbles at the precipice before stumbling backwards, each step taking him further from the darkness until he stumbles over his fallen chair and finds himself flat on his back, staring up at the cream and gold dome above him. He stares at the suspended blue ceiling for a moment until a member of staff blocks his view. A middle aged man with unnecessary facial hair and a nervous disposition.  
“Mr Rogers?” The young man says carefully.  
Steve blinks and shakes his head.  
“Uh. Yes. Sorry.” He blurts out.  
The man offers him a nervous smile and a hand up. Steve accepts the assistance and lets himself be pulled up from the sage coloured carpet. The man rights his chair and looks at him worriedly.  
“Do you need some air?”  
Steve shakes his head.  
“No. No, I just,” he pauses, uncertain how to continue. ‘I nearly cast myself into the void but it’s fine really’ nearly spills out of his mouth. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth just in case the words make a break for it. Swallows. Nods.  
“I’m okay. Just dozed off”.  
The man frowns but doesn’t argue, just asks again if he needs anything before leaving him in peace. Steve sits down at his desk and takes a deep breath. He feels for the shape lodged in his chest and nudges it. For a terrifying moment there is no response. Then he feels pressure and his heart starts beating again. His breath stutters. He pesses his hand to his chest and breathes.  
“Where are you?” He murmurs.  
“Are you okay?” He murmurs.  
He closes his eyes and the world shifts again, not as violent as before but enough to make him gasp. The void spreads out before him like ink spilled in water, tendrils stretching outwards. he opens his eyes and the image recedes to faints wisps at the edge of his vision. It feels familiar, the odd lurching sensation. He thinks of worn leather seats and the crunch of sesame seeds. Omid, dragging him and Romanov through the spaces inbetween. Sketching in Dyke Marsh one second and standing outside a retirement home the next. The Gloaming, Bucky had called it. The places in between.  
He stares at the badly written transcript on the desk in front of him, full of inaccuracies and personal anecdotes of a questionable nature. He picks his notebook up off the desk and tucks it into his pocket, glances around to make sure that no one is watching him, then closes his eyes, and opens.

The void opens up before him, velvet black. He steps forward and the world tumbles away. For a moment he cannot tell if his eyes are open or closed. He holds his breath and listens. He can hear his pulse, steady and slow. The click of his eyelids as he blinks. He moves forward slowly, it is like walking in treacle, like walking in starlight. Dull points in the darkness brighten around him. They gather at his fingertips, at his lips. Like stars. Like flotsam on a strange tide. He reaches out for them and they blossom open, their soft, muted glow lighting up his skin. They gather in the folds of his jacket like petals.  
Where? He asks  
This way, they chime  
This way  
They tug at him in waves and eddies. They ebb and flow and lead him through the darkness, following a cold trail etched in the gloaming with silver fingers.  
Follow the river

He opens his eyes and the world shifts at his feet. Where there was darkness is now blinding white. He blinks and rubs his eyes, they ache and water. He is freezing in his light jacket. He turns slowly, his vision foggy. A mountain range, far north, far from water. He is far above sea level, it is not mist or fog that surrounds him but clouds. JHe feels disorientated, snow at his feet, clouds at his feet. He is uncertain which way is up, which way is forward. He closes his eyes and takes a deep, freezing breath. His lungs fill with water vapour and this thoughts begin to clear. There is something ahead of him, a silver thread half glimpsed in the white. He takes a slow step towards it. Another. Another.  
A rock outcrop comes into view, sharp black lines in the haze. In the centre is a doorway.  
Steve hesitates at the entrance, his nerves jangling. An elevator shaft. He stretches out his senses. he can feel electricity, he can feel steel cables singing under tension. He steps into the elevator, pulls the shutter closed and suppresses a shudder as the motor whirs and the cage shudders slowly downwards.  
He can hear faint echoes in the walls. Distant screams long silenced silenced echo in the cage. Through the bars he sees the binding spells that have been carved into the concrete walls. The sounds fade as he descends, in there place the chill of pain, of fear. The walls stink of panic, of the weight of restraints and the burn of silver. The oppressive odour of despair and hate and hurting. For a moment his in the pit, under the alps. Bucky in his arms, screaming. Cold tears wet his fingers as he tries to soothe, tries to comfort.  
The elevator shudders to a halt and he loses his balance, stumbling against the steel cage. He pulls back the barrier and steps warily out into a corridor. He takes a moment to wipe a shaking hand over his face. Breathes in. Breathes out. Focus. Breathes in. Breathes out.  
There is a trail in the darkness. A fine thread that stretches out down narrow corridors, down endless stairs. He follows it, trailing his fingers against the stained concrete walls. Other footsteps echo at his feet. Soviet boots. Cloven hooves. Claws. Bare feet and scuffed trainers. Some walk, some are dragged, some kicking and stamping. Gouges in the walls. Blood spatter and matted fur. Old pains, old fears swallowed by the stone. There is a doorway at the end of the corridor. There is a doorway and it leads to hell.

Steve pushes the doors open. They are iron and steel and sting the palms of his hands. They open out into a large circular room lit by sodium lamps. The walls are lined with large empty chambers, iron walls carved with sigils. A thick layer of salt covers their interiors. The surfaces of the chambers are smeared with blood, with ash. The reinforced glass frontages have been shattered.  
There is a raised dais in the centre of the room, ringed by a low iron fence. A large chair stands in the centre, flanked by monitors. The screens are smashed in. There is a metal desk bolted to the floor, objects stacked neatly on it.  
Steve steps into the room and falters. The walls are screaming. Pain and fear and rage reverberate through the air, ringing back and forth. He chokes on the smell of blood, the acrid scent of burning flesh. Salt crunches beneath his shoes, dark red and tacky. He forgets how to breathe, how to move, struck with the horror of it. Underneath, under the screaming and the rage and the blood there is a familiar scent. River mud and cheap coffee. Bucky.  
He forces himself forward, moving with hesitant steps to the central platform. The floor is thick with wet, dark matter and littered with pale splinters and broken glass. There are shreds of wine coloured fabric caught in the cold iron bars of the fence. Thin strips of copper and silver scattered under the table. There is an ID badge resting in the viscera under the chair. Steve can make out the letters ily Karp on the laminated plastic. He does not bend down to retrieve it. He climbs the three steps to the dais. The chair squats in the centre, low and ugly. He will not touch it. There are leather restraints on the chair at the legs, at the arms, at the head. Each one has been ripped apart.

On the table there is a bloody knife. On the table there is an awl. On the table there is a stack of document folders in cyrillic script. On the table there is a gift.  
The gift is a carcanet lovingly made from three strands of gold wire inscribed with hexes. Steve brushes his fingers over the necklace. His fingers itch and burn at the touch, but he lifts it up to the light. Silver discs inscribed with curses hang from the gold threads, alternating with adult male teeth. A pendant of phalanges set against a copper amulet dangles down from the centre. It is beautiful and terrible. He closes his eyes and can see Bucky sitting on the table, his dangling legs swinging idly back and forth as he threads gold wire through the bindings. Can hear him humming softly to himself as he ties a tooth in place. He should be horrified. He should be horrified but he is not. He stands in a circular room with the echoing screams of the dead and he cannot fault his Bucky. Not in this. He tucks the necklace into his jacket, close but not touching him. It is a gift left for him and he treasures it.  
He picks up the folders and turns away from the table, taking slow and careful paces through the viscera and down the steps. He opens the first document. There is a photograph of Bucky. He is in one of the iron chambers. Thick frost covers his skin. His eyes are open. Steve closes the file. Feels his skin prickle. He shifts and feels bone splinters crunch beneath his feet. He skin is cold. His skin burns. He cannot breathe. He stumbles out of the room, down the corridor, up the stairs. He is white hot. He is ice cold. He presses his hands to the stained concrete, lets his anger and pain and loss bleed out into the stone. He clenches his fist and feels the solid wall give way. It feels satisfying. He stalks along the narrow corridors, gouging marks in the concrete until he reaches the elevator. The ground beneath his feet groans and buckles. He pulls the cage closed around him. He can feel the shudder and whine of the electrics, the tension in the steel cables. He clenches his teeth and stares at the symbols carved into the shaft as the elevator ascends. It shudders to a halt and he steps out into the clouds, his shoes leaving maroon prints in the snow at his feet.  
He reaches into himself. Takes all the horror and wrath and fear and presses it down into the rock. He feels the ground tremble. He steps back as the earth quakes. He steps back as the rocks shatter. The world tips sideways and he is in darkness.

The void stretches out before him and he does not hesitate, he steps into its embrace. The darkness folds around him. He waits. he waits and motes of light gather around him, clustering at the tips of his fingers, at the curve of his jaw, at the bow of his lips. He reaches out to them, brushing his fingers across their insubstantial forms and they unfold, shimmering open against his skin.  
They tug at him and he moves with them.  
This way  
They chime, they sing  
To the sea

Steve opens his eyes. He is sitting on a wooden chair. In front of him on the desk is a copy of the Lemegeton. He looks up to see the gold and blue domed ceiling of the British Library Reading Room. In his hands are documents written in language he doesn’t understand. In his pocket is a necklace made of curses and teeth and bones. He closes his eyes. Breathes in. Breathes out.  
“You okay, Mr Rogers?”  
He opens his eyes. The Reading Room assistant is hovering nervously over him. Steve shakes his head and hands over the Lemegeton. He doesn’t need it. He never did.  
“No, thank you. I’m done here”.


	5. London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How are you, London?” he asks, remembering his manners.  
>  _The usual. Cold. Damp. Full of people_  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey  
> I am very fond of this chapter, because I am very fond the Thames. I used to live on it (not by. On. In the part of Oxford where it's known as the Isis). The Thames hasn't been the same since that whole cholera epidemic of 1832. The less said about the Industral Revolution the better.  
> If the Thames were a person, he would look like Tom Hardy, but more bruised and less lucid. A kind heart and good company though, even if you can't understand a damn thing he's saying.
> 
> London will always, always, sound like Bob Hoskins.

Steve tucks the folders and his notebook into his backpack, throwing it over one shoulder and heads out into the city streets. He pauses, glancing around to make sure no one is watching him too closely. No one seems to care, and he has seen plenty of people walking the streets talking loudly to themselves and be ignored by passers by.  
“Hello, London,” he says quietly.  
_Hullo Stevie_  
Steve smiles and starts walking down the street towards the university.  
“How are you, London?” he asks, remembering his manners.  
_The usual. Cold. Damp. Full of people_  
London is kind to him. The city remembers the promise it once made to a minor river Demon, and he never gets lost in the crowded tangle of street. The city tells him stories as he walks through its boroughs, stories of the Iceni and the Romans and the smart mouthed Demon.

Steve finds a bookshop and buys a Russian to English dictionary. He makes his way south, pausing at Cleopatra’s Needle. The obelisk flanked by carved stone sphynxes. Old curses cling to the stone and he keeps his distance, skirting around the red granite form and down over to the river. He turns to the Watermen’s Stairs and makes his way carefully down the slippery green steps. It’s low tide, so he walks across the silt to the water's edge and murmurs good morning to the Thames. The river is kindly and good natured and quite, quite mad. It laps at his feet amiably, full of diesel and refuse and probably several dead bodies. Steve watches the boats full of tourists cruise past, the water nudging at his shoes. In his backpack there are several documents written in cyrillic script. He is afraid of what lies in them.  
The water splashes at him and he steps back.  
“Alright, I’m going,” he mutters. The river sloshes at him again.  
He sits down on the bottom step and lays the folders on his lap. He opens the first document. There is the photograph of Bucky, his eyes open, his skin tinged with frost, in a glass fronted chamber. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then he turns the image over and looks at the next page. An pen outline of a human form. There are numerous numbers, marks and symbols on the outline. several of the symbols have been violently scratched out, the pen ripping through the thin paper.  
Bucky  
He pauses. Breathes in. Breathes out. He opens his dictionary and starts searching for words. As he finds each word he writes it down next to the original text. Silver, he writes. Gold, he writes. Salt, he writes. Restraint, he writes. Subdermal, he writes.  
He writes. He writes. He writes.  
The next page is a numbered list of symbols. He recognises them. He has seen them scratched on stone walls, down below the Alps. He has seen them engraved on silver discs, carved onto clay tablets. A few he recognises from the necklace in his pocket. More than half of the symbols listed have a line crossed through them.  
The next document has a detailed drawing of the Golem arm. Clay plates fired in blood and silver and bound together. The Soviets in a fit of hubris had carved a star out of red chalcedony and set it into the silvered clay plates at the shoulder. Behind it lies the shem. Chalcedony, blood and binding. Steve suppresses a shiver. The river splashes gently at him. He pauses in his reading to look over at the waters. They ripple and eddy. He shakes his head.  
“Yeah, it’s pretty bad”.  
The river sloshes over his shoes sympathetically, soaking his feet. It should be unpleasant, March is not the best month for getting your feet wet, but it is a comfort.  
He opens the last document and thinks he might throw up. A pen and ink sketch of a silver collar etched with binding sigils. There are four holes drilled through the metal spaced evenly across the surface. Beside the collar is four silver spikes, each the length of a man's index finger, each the diameter of the holes bored into the collars surface. He does not need to translate the text to understand their purpose. 

Steve snaps the document closed. His hands are shaking. He cannot breathe. He can feel river water soaking into his shoes. He cannot breathe.  
Water laps against his ankles. He cannot breathe.  
There is a cold weight in his chest. There is a hand clasped around his heart. It smoothes its fingers over the aching muscle. It squeezes gently until the flesh remembers how to move. He breathes in. He breathes out. He presses against the weight against his heart and it presses back. He places a hand to his heart and it aches. He breathes in. He breathes out. Water laps over his feet and he looks down.  
“I’m okay,” he tells the water. It is not a lie.

He takes the sheets of paper from the folders, folds them up and tucks them into his jacket. He gets up and murmurs a thank you and dips his hand into the cold waters, they curl around his fingers. He says his goodbyes to the river and promises to return. Both of them.  
He makes his way slowly up the slippery Watermen’s Stairs and walks north, crossing the Strand to Covent Garden. He pauses amongst the brightly painted buildings until he sees the blue painted signage of a herbalist. He purchases a tub of sea salt, a roll of charcoal discs and a large bag of rosemary. He heads west and finds an arts supplies store. There he buys a fine paintbrush, a set of scalpels and a selection of jewellers pliers. He tucks his purchases in his backpack. He takes out the empty folders, tears them into pieces and drops them in a litter bin. For several moments he considers doing the same to the photograph of Bucky in the chamber, but he cannot bring himself to damage the image, however distressing it is to look at. He closes his bag, throwing it over his shoulder as he walks up to Leicester Square to join the crush of commuters on the underground. He pauses at the bottom of the escalator near a group of buskers playing Spanish guitars.  
“Hey London,” he murmurs.  
_Stevie. Off to get your feller?_  
“Yeah,” he says softly.  
_About bleedin’ time. Bring him back safe._

He takes the Piccadilly line to Heathrow Airport and books himself on a flight. It’s a short journey, less than three hours to reach the land where Bucky was born. Steve boards the plane and settles in a window seat. He watches the earth fall away and gets lost in his thoughts as they skim through the clouds. 

Bucky had rarely spoken of his homeland. He had mentioned it a few times back in Brooklyn. When he had been shivering in Steve's arms in that courtyard in Czechoslovakia he had whispered strange, guttural names almost forgotten. Srem. Singidūn. Steve had pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and listened to him mumble about invading Celts and an idiot mariner looking for a sheep, while Dugan had searched the ruins for alcohol. Steve had treasured those stories, pieced them together into a map in his notebook and written down the new names of old places. Zemun. Belgrade. Serbia.


	6. Constanta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Someone once told me 'The world is moving because you are'  
> And tonight there are people travelling through Europe on trains  
> Looking for something that they've never had before"  
> -Europewide search for love  
> Ballboy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, it's chapter 6!  
> Steve does some travelling, and essentially meets his mother in law.
> 
> Get yourself on google images and take a look at Constanta. How beautiful is that?  
> As ever, thank you so much for reading, for kudos and for commenting. Especially commenting. I love you guys.  
> You can find me at thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com   
> though I can't imagine why you would

Serbia is impossibly green so early into spring. Steve gazes down at the dense patchwork of fields and forests, the Danube twisting through the landscape. When the plane lands at Belgrade he finds it hard not to laugh. Nikola Tesla airport. Of course, he thinks with a small smile, remembering a small apartment in Brooklyn littered with copies of Popular Science and Scientific American magazines. Of course.  
He buys a bottle of water and a bus ticket for 300 dinars, then walks out of the glass fronted terminal and down to road to the bus stand, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He waits with the small group of tourists loaded down with their luggage until the bus arrives and lets them on board. As he boards he realises with a jolt that the driver is a Demon. Skinny and wiry, he has a shock of black hair and a drooping mustache. The Demon waves him closer and gestures for Steve to join him, so he tucks himself behind the driver's seat. The door closes and the Demon maneuvers the bus onto the road. _Courtesy_ , he thinks to himself.  
“Hello,” he says quietly.  
The Demon grins at him broadly, pats his skinny chest with a large hand.  
“Bannik,” he says. He faces forward, watching the road, but flicks a quick glance at Steve.  
“Have we met, Bannik?” Steve asks quietly.  
The Demon shakes his head, drumming his long fingers on the steering wheel.  
“Seen you on the news,” the Demon smiles at the road ahead. “Good. A good thing”.  
Steve bows his head and smiles, murmurs a thank you.  
The silence that follows is comfortable. Steve stares out the windows at the hillside covered with white walled, red roofed houses, the wide river below. Bannik drops him off at Novi Beograd, giving him directions to Zemun before reaching over and placing his hand on Steve’s back for a moment. He pats him between the shoulder blades a few times before letting him disembark. It feels like a blessing. Steve thanks him and steps down onto the street, pausing to say his farewells and watch the bus move away. 

He walks downhill, finding narrows streets and cobblestones under his feet until he finally reaches a quay.  
He walks along the water's edge, passing the restaurant barges and groups of tourists until he finds a quiet grassy spot. He sits down on the grassy bank and clears his throat.  
“Zdravo?” he stutters.  
_Terrible_  
Steve coughs out a laugh and apologises.  
“Sorry. Hello?”  
_Better. Hello Steven_  
He smiles as the waves lap along the bank, splashing at his shoes.  
“I… I’m supposed to bring an offering. An exchange. And then ask you for help”.  
The river, wide and deep and beautiful, remains silent. Steve reaches into his backpack and pulls out his bottle of water and a ziplock bag. He opens the bottle and empties out the contents on the grass.  
“Will you help me?”  
The waters swirl and muddy. There is a sucking sound and a dark shapes rolls around just under the surface. Steve bends down and cups his hand in the water, feeling a cold, heavy shape settle in his palm. He scoops it up. A clump of black mud. He cradles it in his hands. It smells like rich, dark earth. It smells like Bucky. He drops it into the ziplock bag, sealing it tightly and putting it in his backpack. He takes his empty water bottle and holds it under the surface, watching it fill up. He lifts it out, screwing the cap on firmly and placing it in his bag.  
“Thank you,” he says.  
He pulls out a necklace made from gold wire and teeth and silver discs. The gold stings his fingers as he lowers it down into the water and lets it slip into the depths. The river laps at his hand, soothing the burns on his fingers. He lets them trail in the waters, cold and clear.  
_Pretty_  
He smiles as the necklace glitters briefly before being lost to the depths. His heart aches a little to part with it, but he does so willingly. It is a good gift. It is a fair exchange. He watches as his fingers go numb in the cold spring waters. It is a long time before he can bring himself to speak.  
“Have you seen him?  
_Yes_  
“Where?”  
_East. Black sea_  
Steve sits up, pulling his hand out of the water. He breathes in. Breathes out. The river moves gently at his feet. A dozen questions clatter behind his teeth, but there’s only one that matters.  
“Is he hurt?”  
_Yes_  
“Is it bad?”  
_Yes_  
Breathe in. Breathe out.  
Steve thinks of the documents in his backpack. The lists of bindings and hexes. He breathes in. He thinks of the bag of rosemary in his backpack. The handful of river mud and the set of scalpels. He breathes out.  
“Okay. Thank you,” he says breathlessly. He gets to his feet, picking up his bag. He hesitates at the water's edge.  
“If you can, will you tell him. Tell him I’m coming?”  
_Already knows_  
Steve huffs out a little laugh and nods his head. He says thank you again to the river and starts walking back the way he came. The city is beautiful in the afternoon light, the Danube a wide blue ribbon twisting across the landscape. 

He feels shaken, unsettled, and realises that he doesn’t have the energy to leave the earth again. As much as he loves looking down through the clouds at the world below on a plane, it sets his teeth on edge to be so far from the ground, and returning to the earth again leaves him unbalanced. He will travel close to the earth. He manages to flag down a taxi and asks to be taken to a train station.  
At the station he buys a map and spreads it out over his knees in a quiet corner. He finds Belgrade on it and follows the line of the Danube with his finger east, trailing along the border between Romania and Bulgaria before twisting north and emptying into the Black Sea. For a moment he is at a loss. The Danube is almost two thousand miles long, it would take him years to search its length. He sits back and takes a breath. East, the river had told him. The Black Sea. He studies the coastline from Varna, Bulgaria to Odessa, Ukraine. Four hundred miles, more or less. He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, easing the ache in his shoulders. East. The Black sea. He frowns, then unfolds the map and creases it along a horizontal line. East. Not northeast, or southeast, just east. He follows the arrow straight line cutting across the lower half of Romania.  
Just below the creased line is a city. Constanta. 

It takes 31 hours to reach Constanta by train. He buys a one way ticket and boards an overnight service to Budapest. The train is uncomfortable but quiet. He thumbs through his notebook, reads through his notes and worries. It is still dark when he changes trains in Budapest, boarding the 7.10am train to Bucharest. He leafs through his notebook. He worries. The journey across the Wallachian Plain is long and slow. Countless miles of green fields strung with electricity pylons move past his distant gaze. He arrives at Bucharest shortly before 11pm. His next connection is not due for four hours so he makes his way out of the station and walks the quiet streets. He follows the pull of water and finds a large park, a long lake twisting through it. It feels good to be walking after sitting still for so long, and better to have water for company. He follows along the lakeside edge, listening politely as it laps beside him. He thanks the water for its company and makes his way back to the train station. He boards the train to Constanta at 2.55am. He stretches out in his seat and dozes fitfully, waking as the train passes through the Bârâgan steppes, the scrubby grasslands stretching to a distant horizon in the twilight. At 6.05am he arrives in Constanta.  
He disembarks and walks out of the train station, muscles stiff and aching. He can feel the sea, so close and wide and singing out to him. He follows its song down to the port and for a moment can do nothing more than lift his head and stare out to sea. It is vast and blue and endless, lit blue and gold and red by the rising sun. He closes his eyes and feels the waters rushing through his veins. Breathes in. Breathes out. 

There is a trail of dust motes in the dawn light, tinged cherry and gold. They oscillate gently in the breeze, moving in eddies and currents. They float ahead of him and Steve follows them like a breadcrumb trail, drifting on strange tides. They lead him gently, dancing in the shadows down quiet streets to a row of holiday apartments, empty and silent outside the holiday season. He follows them as they wash up stairs and through corridors, gathering in the doorway of an apartment tucked away in a far corner.  
The door is open and he steps inside, the tiny stars gathered on his fingers fading away in the morning light. The apartment is empty. He wanders from room to room, slow and silent, his heart clattering in his chest. There is a kitchen, it's cupboards stocked with a small collection of cups and dishes. A small wooden table with two plain pine wood chairs set in one corner. On the counter is an electric kettle and a jar of instant coffee. Steve opens the lid and breathes in the bitter aroma of cheap coffee, letting his eyes close for a moment. The smell is comforting and familiar. He seals up the jar and sets it back down on the counter. There is a battered old fridge, in working order but the shelves are empty. He leaves the kitchen and continues his searching. There is a small bathroom. There is a bedroom with a large bed and a bare mattress. On the mattress is a rumpled green blanket. Steve walks back into the kitchen and sets his backpack on the table. His heart stops. He hears movement in the doorway.  
_Bucky_


	7. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The earth is warmer when you laugh"  
> -Lions Mane  
> Iron & Wine

Steve turns around. Bucky. Hunched in the open doorway, dressed in too many layers of threadbare clothes that cannot disguise the way his left arm hangs limp and heavy at his side, tugging his shoulders at an uncomfortable angle. His skin is pale and tinged with frost. His long dark hair falling in his face. He does not brush it away, only stares, motionless, at Steve. It is a long moment before Steve can speak.  
“Bucky?’ he says softly.  
The Demon blinks. His eyes are as blue as the sea.  
“Do you know who I am?”  
The Demon's mouth curves into a small smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling and Steve knows that smile. He has drawn it a thousand times, and will draw it a thousand more in the years, the centuries, to come. His feet move without his bidding, and he is running across the kitchen floor. Bucky lifts his right hand up and Steve throws his arms around him, pressing his face against the freezing cold skin below his ear and crushing their bodies together. Bucky wraps his working arm around his shoulder and clings just as tightly, rocking them gently back and forth as Steve gasps for breath and shudders against him. For long moments Steve can only hold him and tremble, his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest while Bucky strokes a thumb across the nape of his neck. He doesn’t make a sound, only presses his cold face against Steve’s shoulder and shivers, his breath catching in his throat. Steve loosens his grip and rests a hand against Bucky's cheek, still too cold but no longer limned with frost.  
“Bucky?”  
Bucky’s lips twist in something too much like a grimace, and Steve thinks of a sketch tucked into a notebook in his backpack. A silver collar. He slowly moves his hands down to Bucky's shoulders, pushes back the collar of his worn jacket, the hooded top underneath. He pulls at the layers of clothing and sees a glimpse of silver and blood and bruised skin.  
“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he gasps, recoiling. Bucky takes a firm grip of his jacket and pulls him close. Presses their foreheads together. Steve settles his hands back on his shoulders. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, presses their brows together. Steve lets out a soft huff and slides fingers up his neck, cradling his face in his hands. He pulls back a little, enough for Bucky’s eyes to flicker open and meet his gaze.  
“It’s okay, we’ll get you fixed up”,

Bucky raises his eyebrows at him, but allows himself to be led into the room, kicking the front door shut behind him. Steve pulls out one of the kitchen chairs.  
“Strip to the waist and sit down,” he says quietly.  
The corner of Bucky’s mouth quirks and Steve flushes pink, which only makes him smile more.  
“Damnit, Buck,” he mutters, turning away and fetching a couple of bowls from the kitchen cupboards. He sets them on the table, and starts unpacking his bag. He pours half his tub of salt into a bowl and sets the rest on the table. He unpacks his roll of charcoal discs and a lighter, sparks a flame and holds it against the black disc until it begins to spark and glow. He drops it in the bowl of salt, lights two more, adds them to the bowl and sets it to one side. He fetches a plate from the cupboard and pours the rest of the tub of salt onto it, setting it at the far end of the table. He lays out scalpels, pliers and paintbrush neatly in a row. He looks up at where Bucky is standing by the table. He has shrugged off his jacket and hooded top and dropped them in a heap on the floor. He is struggling to peel off a long sleeved t-shirt. Steve steps forward and helps ease the collar over his head, working the sleeve off the golem arm. He helps Bucky take off the short sleeved t-shirt underneath, throwing it onto the pile of threadbare clothes. If he had worried about getting flustered over the sight of Bucky’s bare chest, the mottled purple and black bruises across his ribs and sternum would have quickly dampened any ardour. He feels a flash of anger. The flesh around Bucky’s shoulder where the Golem arm rests is swollen and red, the silver coating on the fired clay plates burning his skin. The thick silver collar at his throat is crusted with dried blood, the skin bruised purple and blue. From the dried blood and lacerations across his neck Steve can see Bucky's repeated attempts to remove the spikes and tear off collar. He lets out a soft noise of distress at the sight. Bucky reaches out his working arm and rests the back of his fingers against Steve's chin, lifting until he is looking him in the eyes. He smiles softly, curling his fingers and stroking his thumb across his chin. Steve swallows and looks away. Clears his throat.  
“Okay. Sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair.  
Bucky obeys, sitting with his right side against the table. Steve sets a chair opposite him and pulls out his notebook and sheaf of papers. Bucky recognises the cyrillic script and nods his head. Steve sits down facing him, setting the papers to one side.  
“You didn’t look like this last time I saw you,” he says quietly.  
Bucky shakes his head.  
“You were captured?”  
A nod. Steve taps the papers, then presses a finger to the collar around his throat.  
“This. This was Hydra?”  
Bucky nods.  
“The base you sent me to?” Another nod and a small, proud smile at Steve.  
“You escaped?”  
Bucky grins, displaying sharp teeth. Steve arranges his papers, tries not to look at Bucky.  
“It’s gone now. Collapsed. Funniest thing,” he says quietly.  
Bucky reaches forward, touches a thumb to Steve’s mouth. He presses gently, then sits back. Steve shakes his head.  
“I don’t know what that means”. He says. Bucky only offers him a small, soft smile.  
Steve goes searching through the kitchen cupboards until he finds a couple of dishcloths and hand towels. He sets them on the table and glances up at Bucky.  
“Ready?”  
Bucky holds out his right hand.

It’s slow work, removing the subdermal bindings. Steve follows the diagram carefully, keeping the incisions small, then using the needle nose pliers to extract the inscribed gold cartouches. He drops each one on the plate of salt, listening to them smoke and hiss. Bucky doesn’t flinch, and Steve presses his fingers to each wound, rubbing them until they close up leaving faint pink scars. He removes bindings from the right arm, the sternum, the base of the spine, the scapula and the clavicle. He sets down the pliers and rubs his eyes. He checks the list and looks over at Bucky, his face drawn but his expression calm.  
“That all of them?”  
Bucky nods, brushing fingertips over Steve's wrist. He twists his hand around and tangles their fingers together.  
“It’s weird not hearing you talking,” he says quietly. “I missed you”.  
Bucky presses their fingertips together. Steve pulls their joined hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to Bucky’s knuckles. Before Bucky can react he lets go and gets to his feet. Bucky watches as he fetches the bowl full of charcoal discs and brings it closer. The discs are powdery white, and Steve sprinkles a handful of dried rosemary over them, The room fills with plumes of fragrant smoke. Steve sets the bowl on the floor at the left side of bucky’s chair.  
“So,” he begins softly, “I was in Prague recently. There was a Vodník. Nice guy, liked a drink”. He opens the bottle of water and pours a little into a small bowl.  
Bucky watches him silently, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as Steve talks.  
“He was. Helpful”. He sprinkles a little river water onto a hand towel and stands in front of Bucky, trying not to cough in the scented smoke.  
“This. Well, it’ll probably feel weird,” he says quietly.  
Bucky nods, his eyes wide, and Steve grasps his Golem hand. It's heavy, but he lifts it, holding it in his left hand and angling it down and to the side over the clouds of smoke. He presses the folded towel against the clay and silver shoulder and swipes it firmly down the length of his arm. Bucky shudders and grimaces. Steve winces in sympathy, but holds out the towel to reveal a fine sheen of silver on the fabric. Bucky glances at his arm, where amongst the silver is a streak of mottled grey. He lets out a soft huff of air and presses his flesh and bone fingers to his mouth, curling them against his smiling lips. Steve slowly works his way over the arm, pausing to fold the towel or add more rosemary to the charcoal, until the whole surface is a mottled grey. He takes great care at the shoulder, removing all traces of silver there. He sets the folded cloth on the far corner of the table, his fingers numb and tingling. Bucky is slumped in his chair, his face hidden in his hand. Steve sits down opposite him.  
“Hey. Hey, you okay?” he says softly.  
Bucky jerks his head in a single nod. Steve wants to pull his hand away from his face, but doesn’t. He rests a palm on his right shoulder instead, squeezing gently.  
“Does it hurt?” Steve murmurs.  
Bucky shakes his head sharply. Repeats the gesture. Steve rubs small circles on his shoulder and tries not to wonder how long he has been hurting for.  
“Okay,” he says softly. “I could do with some coffee. You want some coffee?”  
Bucky nods, his breath hitching. Steve rests a hand on his head for a moment, then goes to the kettle. He fills it and sets it to boil, then goes back to Bucky, standing behind him and resting a hand on his shoulder. Bucky reaches up and tangles their fingers together. They remain entwined until kettle clicks off and Steve makes two cups of black coffee. He sets them down on the table and picks up a pair of pliers.  
He takes a moment to study the Golem arm, then carefully levers out the star shaped lump of chalcedony. Bucky lets out a soft sigh as it falls away, his shoulders sagging. Steve drops the lump of stone in the plate of salt. He sits down and takes a mouthful of coffee, glancing over at Bucky who has his cup cradled in his hand, pressing the rim against his lower lip. He picks up his notebook, pulling out a scrap of paper. He has had it a long time, since 1943 when Bucky had silently pushed it under his bedroom door. He unfolds it and lays it down on the table. Bucky spots it and leans forward, setting his cup down and pressing a finger to its surface. Steve glances at it and smiles.  
“Yeah, I kept it. I’d never use it, but I kept it”.  
Bucky bites his lip, casts his eyes down.  
“Hey. Bucky, hey,” Steve says softly.  
Bucky doesn’t respond. Steve drops down to his knees, tipping his head until he can catch Bucky’s eye.  
“Hey. You listen to me,” he lifts a hand to Bucky’s cheek, tilts his head to meet him.  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I was stupid and scared and I regretted it every day since”.  
Bucky shakes his head and Steve frowns.  
“Don’t you dare shake your head at me, Bucky”. He lets his hand drop. “I should have kissed you back,” he whispered.  
He sits back on his heels and gives Bucky a rueful little smile. Bucky pinches his chin between finger and thumb and gives him a little shake.  
“I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, Buck,” he says wearily.  
Bucky rolls his eyes and hooks two fingers into the collar of his shirt, pulls him close until they’re nose to nose. Steve shivers as Bucky tilts his head and presses their lips together. It’s brief, too quick for Steve to even react. Bucky untangles his fingers from his collar, and gives him a gentle pat on the chest. Steve bites his lip and Bucky grins at him. Presses a thumb to his mouth again. Steve blushes and bows his head, flustered.  
“Okay. Okay, yeah”.  
He takes a deep breath and picks up a pair of pliers.  
“This is probably going to feel really weird”.  
He reaches into the star shaped hole in Bucky's shoulder and pulls out a scrap of parchment. Bucky flinches as it is drawn free. Steve lays the parchment carefully on the table. It is small, if he were to touch it, it would fit snugly in the palm of his hand. He takes a small square of vellum out of his notebook and picks up a scalpel.  
“You know what this is?” he asks, gesturing to the scrap. Bucky nods.  
“A _shem_ ”. He glances at Bucky, who nods in understanding.  
“Right, well I’m making you a new one”.  
Bucky pulls back and frowns. Steve smiles at him.  
“I know what I’m doing,” he says, and takes Bucky’s flesh and bone hand in his. He takes a hold of Bucky’s thumb and jabs it with the scalpel.  
Bucky doesn’t flinch, but watches, fascinated, as Steve dips his fine paintbrush in the well of blood and carefully paints a symbol on the square of vellum. He dips the brush into the blood and checks his scrap of paper from 1943.  
“A _shem_ is what gives the Golem life. And this,” he carefully copies the symbol for the name Bukavac on the vellum. “This is the name of the Golems master”.  
Bucky lets out a soft sound, and Steve wonders how long the arm has been hanging lifelessly at his side. He puts the brush to vellum again and carefully writes out the name ‘Bucky’.  
“This is your name,” he murmurs.  
He blows on the vellum until it's dry, positions himself at Bucky’s left side and uses the pliers to position the new shem in the cavity in the arm. He throws the pliers on the table and bends to press a kiss to his forehead. Bucky snaps his head up, catching Steve by the waist and pulling him onto his lap. Steve puts his hands on his bare shoulders to keep from losing his balance and Bucky kisses him, hard and fast. He grazes his teeth along Steve’s lower lip, flicking his tongue into his mouth when Steve lets out a gasp and Steve forgets how to breathe, or talk or do anything other than let his hands drift up to Bucky’s scalp and tangle his fingers in strands of dark hair, to think _oh god do that thing with your tongue again_. He may have said it out loud from the grin on Bucky’s face when they briefly separate, and he tilts his head and whimpers when Bucky licks into his mouth. He tastes like bitter coffee and the ocean. They kiss until they are no longer kissing, their lips barely touching, warm breath passing back and forth between their lips. Bucky brushes a thumb across Steve’s lower lip and grins, his eyes bright. Steve breathes in. Breathes out. He tilts his head forward, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.  
Slowly he gets up, despite his knees being a little unsteady, and fetches the ball of river mud from its bag. He kneads it a few times and passes it to Bucky, who cups it in his palm and presses a thumb into its soft surface. He huffs out a soft laugh and hands it back. Steve takes it and presses it into the star shaped cavity in Bucky’s arm, smoothing out the surface until it is even. He takes the paintbrush and, with the tip of the handle, scratches a sigil on the wet mud. He throws another handful of rosemary on the charcoal and sits back.  
“Okay. Give it a try”.  
Bucky swallows, shakes his head. Steve holds out both his hands.  
“Take my hands,” he says gently.  
Bucky leans forward, and slides cool fingers in Steve's hand. The Golem arm does not move. Bucky frowns and shakes his head.  
“It’s okay, just take my hand,” he whispers.  
Steve slides his fingers over the smooth clay palm and the mottled grey fingers fold around them. Bucky lets out a soft, low sound in the back of his throat. He presses the Golem fingers to Steve's hands, to his arms. He presses the thumb to his lips.  
“Feel okay?” Bucky nods, takes a deep breath. Nods again.  
Steve watches him flex the clay fingers, splaying them open and closing them into a fist. He reaches out and clasps the earthen fingers in his hand.  
“Can you feel that?”  
Bucky nods his head, tangling their fingers together. He pulls Steve’s hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

Steve moves back to the table, fetches the last sheet of paper. He folds up a clean cloth and picks up the pair of pliers.  
“This will hurt,” he says softly. “Ready?”  
Bucky clenches his jaw and nods. Steve stands between his knees. He puts a hand at the nape of Bucky’s neck and tilts his head back. The silver collar is clamped tightly against his throat. Four silver spikes are spaced equally around the circumference. Steve cannot help but see the blood from where Bucky has tried to remove them himself.  
“Keep still,” he whispers and grasps the spike and pulls, slowly drawing it from the flesh. he keeps a firm grip on Bucky, keeping him as still as possible. Bucky keeps his eyes clamped shut, his teeth bared, his body still as the skewer is pulled free. Steve drops it on the salted plate where is hisses and sparks. Steve wraps his arm around Buckys head, keeping him braced, and pulls the remaining spikes out one by one, murmuring soft words in his ear as he does so. He drops the final one in the plate and pulls up his chair. He takes the bottle of river water and pours it over the collar.  
“You okay, Buck?”  
Bucky shivers and nods his head.  
“Nearly there,” he says softly.  
He takes a pair of pliers in each hand and uses them to grip the silver collar. He twists the metal and slowly eases it away from his throat. Bucky lets out a low groan as it comes away from his bruised and bloody flesh. Steve drops the collar on the plate and takes the bowl of water. He dips a cloth into the bowl and gently wipes him clean, running the damp cloth over his throat and his right shoulder where the Golem arm meets skin. Bucky coughs and shivers, his head bowed. Steve picks up his hooded top from the bundle on the floor and gently coaxes him into it, threading his arms through the sleeves and zipping up the front. He brushes the hair out of his eyes and wipes his face clean.  
“Bucky?” he says softly.  
Bucky opens his eyes, looks at him.  
“It’s done,” Steve whispers. “It’s done”.  
He wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, feels a flesh and bone hand press against the nape of his neck. Feels a heavy clay hand at the base of his spine, marbled fingers splayed. He strokes fingers through dark hair, caressing and gentle, pressing kisses to his scalp.  
When he can bring himself to move away Steve collects up the notes and supplies, packing them into his backpack. He sets the dishes on the side and puts the smouldering charcoal in the sink. He fills the kettle and clicks it on, rinsing out their coffee cups and adding a spoonful of instant coffee to each cup.  
“Stevie”.  
He drops the spoon with a clatter. He slowly turns around. Bucky. His Bucky, standing beside him.  
“Hey,” he says gently.  
Bucky steps closer, sliding arms around his waist. Steve should tell him to sit back down, to get some rest. Instead he leans forward and presses a kiss to his lips. His mouth tastes of bitter coffee and rich black earth.

Later, much later, after Bucky has dragged him down onto the bare mattress. After words have been whispered in a soft low voice against bare skin. After battles have been fought and won with kisses and teeth and tongues and they lie spent and tangled under discarded clothing and a thick green blanket. West one will whisper to the other, curling dark hair around his fingers. He has drawn that smile a thousand times, and will draw it a thousand times more in the years, in the centuries to come. A remembered promise made to a far away city and a far away sea. West, he whispers as warm clay fingers press to the smile on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks  
> Hoily crap, it's done!  
> Thank you to everyone who has travelled with me. For your beautiful comments, for kudos and for reading in the first place.  
> Really. Thank you.
> 
> This isn't the last of these two assholes, there will be a couple of one shots coming sooner or later, but for now we'll leave them in peace.
> 
> Love to you all, every last damned one of you.


End file.
